Page:Paradise lost by Milton, John.djvu/46

40 All incorruptible would on his throne Sit unpolluted, and the ethereal mould, Incapable of stain, would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope Is flat despair; we must exasperate The almighty victor to spend all his rage, And that must end us; that must be our cure, To be no more. Sad cure! for who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity? To perish rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night, Devoid of sense and motion. And who knows, Let this be good, whether our angry foe Can give it, or will ever? How he can Is doubtful; that he never will, is sure. Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, —Belike through impotence or unaware— To give his enemies their wish, and end Them in his anger, whom his anger saves To punish endless? 'Wherefore cease we then?' Say they who counsel war; 'we are decreed, Reserved, and destined to eternal woe. Whatever doing, what can we suffer more? What can we suffer worse?' Is this then worst, Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? What! when we fled amain, pursued, and struck